Forever Fighting (Forever Boston #2)

Chapter 1 – Roman

ROMAN

Islice the truffle with the precision of a surgeon, each paper-thin round perfect, making my sous chef, Chris, curse.

“Now you’re just showing off.”

I smirk at him as I finish the dish of butter-poached lobster with caramelized sweet corn, bacon, and parsnip puree with a truffle crown.

The sauce only I know the recipe for takes three days to reduce and settle, which is why we only serve this dish here at South Paw on Fridays.

Critics have called it transformative, and customers drop two hundred bucks to experience it.

“Showing off implies competition.”

He chokes on a half-baked laugh. “God, you’re such a dick. Does that come with your MICHELIN Star or your James Beard Award?”

I shrug at his sarcasm. “That’s for you to decide, not me. I don’t care if I’m a dick as long as the dish is perfect. Finish this up and get it out.”

“Yes, Chef,” he says, though there’s no heat in it.

Around me, the kitchen hums with the sort of chaotic perfection I thrive on.

It’s a well-tuned machine where everyone knows their place and does their job without me having to bark down their throats.

I own three restaurants here in Boston and bounce between all of them, but my Fridays are always spent here.

Tonight, I’m especially wired, and it has nothing to do with my restaurants or cooking. For now, I settle the adrenaline anxious to pump through my veins and focus on what I’m here to do.

“Behind,” I call out as I slide past a line cook.

“Chef, the Pierce party is requesting to meet you,” Eliza, the front-of-house manager, tells me. “Their daughter is with them. She’s that influencer model girl everyone is obsessed with. She asked if you’d pose for pictures with her and if you’re single.”

I throw her a side-eye, and she tosses her hands up.

“Don’t shoot the messenger. I told them I’d tell you and see what you’d say.”

“Tell them I’m busy making their dinner and I don’t do meet and greets, especially setups.

” I’m already turning my back to her as I go to taste a sauce that’s simmering a bit too rapidly.

She leaves it at that, knowing well enough not to argue with me.

Celebrity chef status comes with annoying expectations, including appearances, glad-handing, and Instagram posts.

Being a Fritz from a family of famous billionaires gets you that too, so for me, it’s doubled.

I don’t do any of them, and it’s earned me a reputation as a dick, just as Chris said.

But as I told him, I don’t care. I got into it for the food. Not the other bullshit. Europe is always better with the celebrity stuff, and it’s yet another reason I’m looking forward to moving in three months.

Three hours later, the cleaning staff is doing their thing, and I’ve discussed inventory with both my bar and food managers. In my office, I shed my white coat and pull on a clean black T-shirt I already know I won’t be wearing for long and my leather jacket.

My muscles vibrate with anticipation, and without a word to any remaining staff, I head out the back door and straight onto my motorcycle.

The old rope warehouse isn’t far from South Paw, tucked in a part of South Boston that developers haven’t touched yet.

From the outside, it looks abandoned, dark, with crud-crusted windows and dirty brick.

But anyone who knows this area knows it’s anything but abandoned.

Seamus O’Brien owns it and therefore no one fucks with it.

I park along the side and head over to the metal door manned by two discreetly armed men I wouldn’t be excited to see in the ring.

“Roman,” one greets me and steps aside to allow me entrance.

The inside space isn’t all that different from the outside.

The concrete floors are gritty and worn, the overhead lights dull and likely a fire hazard.

The air smells of money, sweat, and expensive leather.

There are two full bars, one on each side of the ring, and so far there are about a hundred people milling about and eyeing me surreptitiously.

I spot Hayes and Forest talking to two guys, but once they spot me, they head over to me.

Hayes is one of my lifelong friends, and Forest is my cousin, but more of a friend as well.

It’s just them tonight as Crew can’t be caught here or he’d be kicked off the Boston Rebels—where he plays professional football as a tight end—and his twin, Quinn, and my other friend Skylar rarely attend my fights.

Typically, it’s Hayes, Forest, and my best friend, Braelyn, but I don’t see her yet.

“Hey, man.” Forest gives me a fist bump, as does Hayes. “Supposed to be a big crowd tonight.”

“The guy you’re up against is also undefeated,” Hayes explains. “He’s also talking a lot of shit.”

“They always talk shit,” I say as I head into the back room to get myself ready and stay away from the anxious crowd.

“The action is heavy.” Forest leans against the wall, his eyes on his phone.

“If that’s so, put twenty grand down on me to knock him out before the sixth.”

Hayes whistles through his teeth. “Shit. All right. We’re on it.”

They leave, only I’m not granted any alone time. “Winner takes fifty grand,” Seamus says by way of a greeting, with a greedy gleam in his eyes. He’s feeling me out. Seeing where my head is. There’s no other reason for him to be in here before the fight.

I pull off my leather jacket and black T-shirt before slipping off my pants and changing into shorts. My muscles are charged, and my blood hums. I fucking love this feeling. It’s the high that never gets old.

Even if the reason I do this haunts me like a never-ending nightmare.

“Roman, did you hear me?”

I don’t know why he bothers to tell me the night’s amount. I don’t care about the money. It’s not why I do this, and he knows it. All of my winnings are anonymously donated to charity anyway.

“Cool,” is my only reply. He gets forty percent of that regardless of who wins.

It’s an easy deal for him. Even if this place is raided by cops or feds, no one in this city will go after him.

The risk is all mine. I’m the one with everything to lose.

But when you already know what it feels like to lose everything, you no longer have fucks to give about that threat.

“I’ll go check on Biscuit and make sure he’s ready to go.”

Biscuit? What the fuck kind of name is that for a boxer? Without waiting for me to acknowledge him—because he knows I won’t—he heads out the door, and I’m finally alone.

Only once again, my solitude doesn’t last long. Not even two minutes later, the door opens and the handler announces, “It’s time.”

With a nod, I roll my head and crack my neck while I jog lightly in place to keep my muscles warm.

I step out of the room and take in the scene before me.

A couple of hundred people are crammed into the warehouse, actively making bets and shouting.

Smoke curls up toward the high rafters, making the already dim lights hazy and the air reek of cigarettes and weed.

Biscuit stands beside me, a mountain of a man with a ridiculous name, and I take him in as he does with me.

Neither of us speaks, but I can already see his weakness.

His size. It gives him a false sense of confidence, though I have no doubt he’s a bruiser when he gets going. Good. I relish that in an opponent.

Turning away from him, I scan over to the VIP area and lock in on Braelyn, who’s standing there with Forest and Hayes. She rarely, if ever, misses a match. A smile curls my lips before I can stop it.

“That your woman?”

I don’t answer Biscuit, and this pleases him.

“She’s beautiful. She’ll look even better on her knees sucking my cock after I win.”

I hold in my smirk. He just put the nail in his own coffin with that.

Arnett, a henchman of Seamus’s, goes through the whole welcome speech from the center of the makeshift ring.

Then Biscuit and I are announced, though he refers to me as Romeo, my fighter name.

We enter the ring to thunderous applause and shouts, but I ignore everyone as I head over to Braelyn and the guys.

Hayes and Forest each give me a nod that I return.

Braelyn doesn’t say anything. She just holds out her pinkies to me, and I lock mine with hers.

We squeeze them together, and I give her a wink. It’s become our thing over the years. It’s our I’ve got you no matter what signal. It’s for luck, and it never fails.

My head clears, and I meet Biscuit in the center of the ring, my gaze deadlocked with his as I study him one final time. He’s smiling like a smug bastard, but he’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.

“Fight!” Arnett calls and jumps out of the way.

And as I suspected, Biscuit is impatient.

He rears back with a mighty swing he lets fly, and I duck to the right, making him miss.

It pisses him off. I bet that move has knocked a few guys out before, but that’s not how I operate.

He comes at me again, and when I go left this time, feeling the air displace against my cheek from his fist, I swing around and nail him dead in the ribs.

And with it, everything fades. The restaurant. The fame. The pressure. The stormy waters. The main reason I’m leaving the country.

All of it.

The violence, the blood, the sweat, the pain. It feeds the darkness of my soul.

Back and forth, we do this dance. Over and over. Round one is called. Then rounds two, three, and four. He nails a few punches, one of which manages to cut my upper lip, filling my mouth with blood, and another that slices beneath my eye. But for every hit he lands on me, I get five on him.